


The Architects of Their Own Misfortune

by lalunaticscribe



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, xxxHoLic
Genre: Angst, Fae & Fairies, Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, History repeating itself?, Hitsuzen, Implied Relationships, Kindred Spirits, M/M, No idea where I'm going with this, What Could Have Been, Wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:53:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalunaticscribe/pseuds/lalunaticscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even when it's a train wreck you can't look away from it. Because it's all them. There is no external power tearing them apart. They are the architects of their own disaster, their lack of communication so deeply rooted in who they are that it's impossible to imagine them doing anything else.</p><p>Or: Where Logan and Remy are being belligerent to each other over a certain shopkeeper's presence, and because of said shopkeeper's presence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wish Shop

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously have no idea where I was going with this. With any luck, maybe I'd continue, but I need comments... like, bad.
> 
> Enjoy!

The Wikipedia definition of wolverines are a rather accurate summation.

 

Wolverines are not very impressive-looking creatures. Being compact little blobs of dark shaggy fur rarely weighing more than eighteen kilograms, they are the largest extant members of family _Mustelidae,_ and can therefore be thought of as giant weasels, to which they are evolutionary cousins. Combined with the weasel's distinctive trait of manic berserk blood-lust combined with impressively powerful, bone-crushing jaws. Overall, a rather apt name for this man, Watanuki Kimihiro reflected. Short, shorter than even him. Barely matching Maru and Moro on height, though at least there was no human shorter than Mokona yet.

 

A few mutants had come here and there over the years he had taken the wish shop, still awaiting Yuuko's return, but none as infamous, enigmatic, or confused as the Wolverine.

 

“It was no accident that you came to my shop today,” he began as the smoke, cloying and sweet, began to clear around him. “It was inevitable that we would meet here and now. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

 

“I... I've no idea what I'm here for,” the man sputtered.

 

“You do know,” Watanuki airily replied. “But, your heart is confused. I know a lot of things, including that you don't know what this shop is for. This is a shop that sells wishes, that only those with wishes might enter.”

 

* * *

 

It happened by accident, really.

 

Japan had always been a blend of the very old and very new, old traditions mixed with the modern outlook on life. There was something about the place that should be an anachronism in and of itself, and yet mired as it were between times. Logan had lived in the Capital of the East before, and therefore was the number one mutant sent by Charles. He would not have minded if it weren't for one conveniently left out fact that the kid was not very keen on going with the X-Men, and that the kid was just about this side of suicidal anyway.

 

So, it was during chasing the kid through the Shinjuku ward that Logan had found himself milling around the shop.

 

This particular parcel of land is – or was supposed to be – an empty lot, abandoned by its developer after money for new luxury condos dried up. Some instinct told him that the tall wooden fence encircling its perimeter and the opening flanked by two posts with wooden carvings of crescent moons is not supposed to be here. Nor was the two-story Edwardian-style house supposed to be here; the lot shouldn't even be large enough to hold a house that size.

 

When he stepped over the threshold onto the cobblestone walkway (set into a well-groomed lawn of grass and trees; not the usual upturned dirt in an abandoned lot), the sky bursts open with light. It is day on the other side of the fence.

 

A pair of girls, one with short pink hair and the other with long blue curly pigtails, stood in the entranceway.

 

“Welcome to the shop!” they said in eerie unison, seizing hold of his hands. “Master is waiting. He's been expecting you. Come this way.”

 

With the air of the permanently confused, Logan followed – or was dragged by – the odd twins through the shop, through the crescent emblazoned red doors before they were flung open and the girls ushered him into a smoky room. The doors clicked shut behind them.

 

The girls sat him down, before migrating to the side.

 

“Good job, Maru, Moro.” A young man with old eyes came into view. Draped over a chaise lounge, the elaborate kimono fell elegantly over his legs and off the edge of his couch. Short black hair framed a pair of mismatched blue and brown eyes and a pale, almost delicate face. Within arm's reach sat a plain red box large enough to double as a table, and perched on the box were two very odd creatures; what looked like a rabbit with a blue jewel upon its forehead, and a snake-like furry thing that had the features of a Japanese fox; large ears, thin eyes, bristling.

 

“Welcome to my shop, honoured guest.” While the voice was not mocking, the tone also lacked any note of actual deference.

 

“Erm...” Logan scratched his head. Although he would have more often than not marched out of the place in an instant, there was some unseen, unknown force holding him back. Clearly... either it was a mutant power, which was thrown out of the window since Charles didn't pick up on mutant presence, or... it was magical in nature. Damned mystical muckety-muck.

 

“It was no accident that you came to my shop today,” he began as the smoke, cloying and sweet, began to clear around him. “It was inevitable that we would meet here and now. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

 

“I... I've no idea what I'm here for,” he decides, rather than the prosaic response of invectives.

 

The man – boy really, but just because something was physically young didn't mean chronologically so – looked at him, eyes twinkling with mirth. “You do know. But, your heart is confused. I know a lot of things, including that you don't know what this shop is for. This is a shop that sells wishes, that only those with wishes might enter.”

 

Any other day, and Logan would probably have left. But today is not like any other day. “Who are you?”

 

“Watanuki Kimihiro,” the man – _Watanuki_ , his knowledge of Japanese formality supplied – replied. Truthful, at least as far as the guy knew. “And you are?”

 

“Logan.” How had he missed it, the fact that the Wolverine could not defend himself, was at the mercy of this boy who could most likely do worse things to him than Magneto could probably fathom. Magneto was no sadist, everyone knew, just a pragmatic son of a bitch. From Mariko telling folklore stories, there might be some perverse bent waiting if he flipped out.

 

Logan was about to leave when a plate was slid across the low table to him, Watanuki blowing a thin stream of smoke that hovered as the younger-looking one looked to Logan with old eyes.

 

“ I am sorry for your loss,” a motion, the gesture innocent and laden with innuendo at the same time. “You have lived for many ages, many tumultuous times in the New World. You have been gifted by fate, and your gifts augments by the miracles of humankind, and it does not matter to you. A man who lived in old, old times, where the law is sometimes only a passing thought, a true loupe-garou. And you yearn yet more. The past is closed to you, the future unknown to you, and you cling on all the more to the present, the only certainty. And that is why you seek your past; for that certainty, the immutable facts . ”

 

“You can't help me remember.” Logan tries not to let his shock appear.

 

Another billow of cloying smells and smoke, and Watanuki is seeing him, seeing him in the way that could be no human sight. “I remember saying something to a woman before, looking to gain a person's heart. There's a word: yearning. It's said that 'yearning' was coined during the Heian period. It seemed originally the soul disappearing was called _akugare_ , that meant the situation in which the soul went somewhere, and one lost oneself.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“That is not clear enough?” Watanuki murmured. “Well, I don't think much could be expected of a confused Wolverine. Let me reiterate; this is a shop that grants wishes. However, for everything you desire, you have to pay an equal price in return. You can’t get more, nor give more. There can’t be more or less; things must be in balance. But, why we have crossed paths is uncertain to me.”

 

“Meaning you don't know, and can't guess,” Logan snorted. “I'm outta here.”

 

“If you leave now, we will still cross paths in New York,” was the serene reply. Logan twitched as Watanuki actually began setting out _sakazuki_ cups – or saucers – and the black rabbit thing leapt up to scream for alcohol.

 

One white saucer was proffered. “Are you sure you won't remain?”

 

Getting wasted. Yep, seemed like a good idea, even on prissy alcohol barely comparable to beer.

 

“I'm the best there is at what I do,” Logan was sighing halfway through. “And what I do isn't very nice.”

 

“I know.” Whatever it was that enabled the Japanese as a whole to somehow seem so mysterious, Watanuki was obviously at the top of it.

 

“You're not real,” Logan slurred. “I mean, if it's so easy for me to remember, then why didn't I visit Doc Strange earlier?”

 

“If you believe in it, it is real, if you do not, it is fiction,” was the reply. “Either way, you are not seeking the past. You have no real need for it. There are two memories; memories of the heart and memories of the body. The heart is important but the body is important as well. Sometimes, even if the heart forgets the body remembers.”

 

“Fat hope,” Logan snorted. “No scars.”

 

“In a different fashion, my dear customer.” Watanuki admonished. “Besides, your Doctor Strange, and the magicians of the world will pass through here sooner or later. They always do. They will. Even your Sorcerer Supreme cannot hold a candle to the shop of the Witch of Dimensions.”

 

“What?” Logan echoed.

 

“The Time-Space Witch, the Dimensional Witch, the Far East Witch, and the Girl Witch...” Watanuki gave a careless shrug. “Many names had the previous owner, including the name I knew her as Ichihara Yuuko. A snack? The dried pork is good.”

 

Slowly, Logan chewed on the snack. A bit hard, but it was meat, in a sense. And good. “Mmm. So... wishes, huh?”

 

“At a price,” Watanuki replied. “And sometimes... the price might not be something you wish to pay.”

 

Logan set down the saucer-thing. “Well, thanks, but I gotta go.”

 

“We will meet again, then,” was the reply, laced with certainty. “The company does some good.”

 

“Can't you go out if you want company?”

 

“I am the shopkeeper. I cannot leave the shop.” Watanuki's face looked grim. “It is the price I pay.”

 

Logan frowned, before picking up the saucer again. “'Snot beer, but... another cup?”

 

“Of course,” was the faint reply. Both of them drank at once, before looking from the porcelain carafe to their saucers.

 

“Maru, Moro,” Watanuki sighed. “Please get two more bottles. It appears that Mr Logan will require some more.”

 

“M' fine,” the feral grumbled.

 

Watanuki leaned until they were eye to eye. “Are you sure?”

 

Mokona then bounced into the room. “Watanuki, he's here!”

 

Footsteps sounded behind him until the red doors slammed open. “Logan!”

 

Logan's relatively large hand reflexively slapped his forehead. “'lo, Gumbo.”

 

“Welcome,” was the soft reply as Watanuki smirked at the auburn-haired mutant. “By some inevitable fate, Mr Logan has become a customer of my shop. I am trying to divine the purposes of his coming here.”

 

“A shop?” Gambit cast a look around. “Okay, some dings might fetch a price, but... what do you sell?”

 

“I sell wishes,” was the reply. “And since you have actually found your way here, you must have a wish. For only people with wishes can actually see this shop, much less enter it.”

 

“Magic.”

 

Logan snorted. “Right, bub.”

 

“Believe what you wish,” Watanuki offered. “However... Stephen Strange is long overdue for a _chat._ ”

 

Both mutants twitched at the very thought, one sprawled on a cushion before the shopkeeper and the other still standing.

 

“Mr Logan... Our relationship has been formed,” Watanuki purred. “No matter how trivial the meeting and the incidents that follow may seem, a relationship is made. Even if it is for a short amount of time, a knot that has been tied does not unravel. It means that during your lifetime, every incident that passes has meaning.”

 

Now sitting back, Watanuki's mismatched eyes still carefully met Logan's own. “The meeting between you and I also has meaning, so remember it.”

 

* * *

 

“Creepy,” was the first thing Remy LeBeau commented once they got out of the place.

 

“Hmph,” was Logan's succinct reply.

 

“What were you doing there?”

 

“None of your biz, Rems.”

 

“You sure?”

 

Logan turned to look at the red pupils. “What's your problem?”

 

Remy backed away, raising both hands in surrender. “ _Non, non_. But... these magic-types, making bargains ain't ne'er good, right? And that one... he was very close t' you, _cher._ ”

 

Logan grinned. “Wouldn't mind tapping that.”

 

Remy cocked his head to one side, red eyes never leaving the feral. “ _Oui_? Remy thought... Remy thought da Wolverine was the most aggressive for the gals.”

 

Said mutant just looked at him, before walking off.

 

Within the compound of the shop, Maru and Moro giggled between nibbles on cookies as Mokona downed another cup of sake, to Watanuki's amusement. “They're going to end up together, are they?”

 

A billow of smoke lingered past. “There are indefinite things in this world that remain unexplained. No matter how weird it is, mankind will always observe it. It will always be so with mankind. But it is the imagination. But it is the past. People are the world’s strangest creatures.”


	2. Werewolves, or the Second Case

In New York, he received a cryptic message and a non-verbal command to a part of the Xavier grounds that, surprise, surprise, contained what he had begun to refer obliquely to as _the house_. There, the twins greeted him again, and Mokona grumbled for alcohol, to which Logan produced a bottle of whiskey.

 

“A poor choice,” was the first comment that greeted Logan. Smoke billowed out from Watanuki's lips, again disarmingly beautiful. Alcohol distributed, snacks laid out, conversation duly made.

 

“So why am I here again?” Logan grumbled.

 

“Your wish,” Watanuki looked at him. “Don't tell me you aren't interested. You have grown closer to that which you yearn for, no?”

 

There was no reply, just an unceremonious grumbling and more outpouring of alcohol. “And why's the building here?”

 

“The shop straddles several dimensions and locations. Anyone who has need of it may find it. Just that...” and here Watanuki gave a small smile. “Only those with wishes may find it.”

 

 _Past the telepath?_ Logan wanted to snort, and tried not to think about all the messy things that could come with it. Such as the implication that Watanuki could slip past the manor's defences. That visit to Strange was becoming more likely.

 

“You have a student here,” Watanuki commented. “Derek Hunt.”

 

“Yeah, shape-shifter, new guy,” Logan snorted. “Bit of a temp- What 'bout it? An' how'd you know anyway?”

 

“He does not know it,” Watanuki sighed. “The tragedy that awaits him this night.”

 

Logan's eyes narrowed. “He's staying here. What's going to happen?”

 

Watanuki considered him, squinting. “Call it... the sins of his ancestors. It is not the concern of mutants or humans.”

 

“What. Will Happen.” Logan bit out, the alcohol already souring.

 

Absently, Watanuki poured out another generous measure. “To do so, you must pay off your debt, and therefore the value is decreased by twice. You must place yourself in my hands if you wish to do something. You do not have the time to think.”

 

Logan flatly looked at him. “It's a mutant kid, we're supposed to help. Fine, I'll help you this once.”

 

Watanuki nodded. “How much do you know of werewolves?”

 

“There's hybrids, people like Rahne,” Logan snorted. “And there's creatures-of-the-night things.”

 

“The latter I meet sometimes in my... work,” Watanuki hand-waved. “Although the former is more common, I speak of the latter. It is highly possible for one to belong to the world of science, and one of magic, you understand.”

 

“Yeah, you're just as bad as Wiccan, get on with it,” Logan growled.

 

“Often times, people simply deny the existence of what they do not understand, and anyone who tells them otherwise is a liar,” Watanuki merely shook his head. “What they don’t know stays ‘unexplained’ and they are happy with that.Very well, he is... there is a wish involved. His mother paid the price. All fair and aboveboard, I assure you. Of course, I could have perhaps contacted the school, but I am to involve no one of the matter.”

 

“What?” Logan snarled.

 

“It is a complex matter, these curses,” Watanuki continued. “I have parameters I have set, that I cannot abuse, much like your Sorcerer Supreme does. I cannot do anything. _You_ can.”

 

“So I'm your cat's paw,” Logan snorted. “And if I do nothing?”

 

“If you won't stop it, that boy will kill everyone, and everything in the school,” was the serene reply. “It is not his fault, that he was born into a curse. It is... a horrible fate. Little more than a killing machine because of birthright.”

 

Damn. “Then break the curse.”

 

“That is what I must do. But I cannot come, so you must do what needs to be done until I can.” said the spider to the fly. “Come the day you must take him into New York. I will have someone waiting.”

 

Barely had he walked out of the house when the whole thing disappeared, leaving an empty patch of ground.

 

Stupid magicians. Stupid mystical muckety-muck.

 

* * *

 

“Ready, Wolfsbane?”

 

Rahne Sinclair just shook her head, yawning. “Do you have any idea how long it is across the pond, Logan?”

 

 _We must hurry,_ Xavier whispered to them via mental communication. _If this tip is indeed true, then Derek is of no fault in this. Come the dawn we must send for Strange immediately._

 

All three mutants swallowed as the triple-reinforced steel door dented.

 

“What in the name of-” Rahne never got to finish that sentence as the door caved down.

 

There was a snarl, and then the creature came through the doorway. It was a wolf, in the same way that a velociraptor might be a bird – same basic design, vastly different outcome. It must have been Logan's height at the tip of its hunched shoulders. Wider than a wolf, as though a wolf had been squashed down with an extra five or six hundred pounds of muscle. Its pelt shaggy, matte black, its ears ragged, upright, focused forward like the wolves of antiquity, with a muzzle too wide to belong to anything natural, complete with a mouthful of teeth and blazing eyes done in monochrome grey, the whole stained with blood that looked black. Its limbs were disproportionate, just _wrong_ though there was no way to describe the details _._ Everything about it was wrong, screamed with malice and hate and anger, and it carried a cloak of supernatural power with it.

 

Further proof, if needed, that where mutant-human relations were no-we-just-hate-people-that-look-different-standard, that magical things were no-fucking-sense-kids-transform-into-big-monsters-outright- _insane_.

 

Normally, predators would not attack unless provoked. This one was different, launching itself at Rahne outright. Xavier's panic was clear as Rahne took on her lycanthrope form and began to weave, her agility confusing that killing machine for a moment. Wolfsbane bothered it no more than a fly ramming the forehead of a professional wrestler; it rose up amidst yips and barks andhowls. And then it fell upon her, claws and fangs slashing. The lycan tried to turn, to run where there was no place left to go, and the thing turned its head and sank its jaws into the small of the wolf-woman's back, releasing a spray of blood.

 

Logan saw the way the blood flew up over the hunched, gnarled shoulders of the beast to decorate the walls and the ceiling. He leapt into action with his claws.

 

 _I can't control it!_ Xavier's panicked voice broke in. _It's feral!_

 

Where the adamantium bit, the beast merely advanced, ignoring the thick dark blood dripping from where the wounds were already healing. Only killing. And apparently a healing factor to rival his own, Sabretooth, and maybe even Laura.

 

Magic. Crazy stuff.

 

Logan's blood went cold at the possibilities if Watanuki never warned them. A whole wing of students murdered in their beds did not a good thought make. 

 

“ _Merde_ , _mon Dieu!_ ” A miniature explosion sounded. Remy did the tuck-drop-roll thing, ready to throw more cards. “What is that?”

 

“Derek,” Logan snarled. “Apparently, he's a werewolf. A real one. Wolfsbane!”

 

The red-furred lycan answered with a howl and something like a wolfish battle cry, going for the jugular with her fangs. So far, it seemed to shrug off everything.

 

“Get it outside!” Logan howled. “If it gets to the wings-”

 

Immediately, Remy threw a few cards at the wall, which promptly exploded. Logan went for the resulting crater, followed by an injured Wolfsbane, with the monster – for nothing else could vaguely match that thing – hot on their heels.

 

“Next time, we're screening!” was the cry as Logan cut one flank, only for the wounds to stick together. With an agonised roar, the beast turned on him, biting a huge chunk out of Logan's shoulder. No, it clung on, shaking its head violently left and right, blood staining its coat to glisten and Logan still stabbing it in the eye with his other hand.

 

Boom. More cards. For all of his martial skill, it was clear that the only advantage Gambit had here was mid-range attacks. The monster would probably eat him raw had it not been distracted.

 

The wolf-thing howled as Rahne tackled it in the back, and Logan backed off, growling with intent to kill like a murderous berserker. The beast took a running jump, Logan looked like he was about to fight back-

 

-and Wolverine feinted to one side, kicking the thing into a pre-prepared hole, safely seven to ten feet. A circle glistened, lighting up once the beast was inside, bashing and howling against it.

 

“Nice,” was the airy comment of Watanuki. “Oh look, it's contained.”

 

“You couldn't have done that earlier?” Logan grumbled.

 

“Private housing,” was the reply. “Besides, it's always best that the spiritual and material worlds do not mix.”

 

“What do we do now?” Remy demanded. “And how is _he_ here?”

 

“I was contracted,” Watanuki replied dismissively, looking towards the circle. “A powerful curse, this one. Yet it is no matter, the sacrifice...”

 

From those long sleeves a braid of hair was produced, one end ragged as if the whole thing had been unceremoniously chopped off the nearest head, also jet-black. “Time paid to return your mortality,” was the whisper that echoed around as the hair caught fire and began to burn, shrivelling into nothing as the circle still hummed.

 

Something gave a _crack._

 

There was a flash of light, too much power unleashed in a flaring of energy as the mystic substance shattered the monster's invulnerability, carved into it, coursed through it in a blinding blue-white shower of sparks. Blue fire erupted from its chest, its black heart's blood ignited into blinding flame, and the creature screamed, arching backward in agony. There was the sound of thunder, flashes of more light, someone screaming.

 

The wolf-like beast fell to earth. And changed. Muzzle melted back into a human face. Fangs and claws faded. Warped muscles slithered away into globs of clear, preternatural ooze that would quickly vanish. Fur disappeared. Knotted limbs straightened into clean arms and legs – until Derek Hunt lay, partly upon his side, one hand pressed to his heart.

 

The braid spilled out between his fingers and dangled down his chest. He stared down at the wound for a moment, and then he relaxed. He looked up, and in his face there was all the grief and agony and impotent rage of his lack of control. Eyes cleared and warm, he smiled.

 

Then he laid down his head, and was gone.

 

* * *

 

“It is a horrible curse,” Watanuki shook his head. “Cursed to transform into a killing beast at the rise of the full moon. It is a curse that passes by blood. And he does not know, because only one member at any time would actually embody the curse.”

 

Logan's tumbler dropped as his mood abruptly soured. “And you couldn't have called beforehand? We could've called Strange! Done something... anything!”

 

“It will not be the first time, nor will it be the last,” was the severe admonishment. “They will. You cannot save every one of them, those souls caught by the demons and spirits and Fae, toyed with and killed and eaten, those who are like vampires and perhaps more seized by the empty night. It is not for you. Perhaps, this will be the last time that you will see a cursed being like such.”

 

“Right,” Logan sat up. “And? What do I want, then?”

 

“Oi, Logan...” Barging in again, Remy stopped at the proximity between Logan and Watanuki. “Am I interrupting something?”

 

“We shall see,” Watanuki smirked. “Mr LeBeau, I would suggest that, him being rather unattached right now, you take the chance. Now, Maru, Moro, please show our guests out.”

 

Rather unceremoniously, the two mutants strolled out of a shop that quickly faded, as if there was nothing. Remy was still staring at where the front gate used to be.

 

“What was that about?” Logan grumbled.

 

“N- Nothin',” the mutant thief looked uncomfortable. “Jus'... a hint, _mon cher_.”

 

Logan stared at him, and at the place where the shop was once, and then sighed. “Stupid mystical muckety-muck.”

 

“ _D'accord_ ,” Remy solemnly murmured, about to reach for the rough hand but stopped. “Say... why is this... magical person coming here?”

 

“Don't know,” Wolverine shrugged. “Why, you jealous, Rems?”

 

It was a long while, before staring at the ceiling above his bed, that Logan realised that Remy had never actually replied him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marvel has such a tendency to retcon stuff that I gave up and just went along with the movie-verse and what I roughly glean from the wiki. Given that it's xxxHOLiC, then we obviously need some magic. Cue the Dresden Files; fun, fun and fun. Hence the obvious loup-garou reference. Next up are trolls under the bridges... if I get to it. Still trying to figure it out.


	3. Going down Bleecker Street

Logan really should have done it the moment he got back to New York. Even if every time anyone approached they were liable to get the crap beaten out of them, or shipped off to some other dimension to get the crap beaten out of them, or astral projected to get the crap beaten out of them, and that he'd technically sworn never to go down Bleecker Street ever again, well... Remy did not look like he was giving a choice. And between being dragged to the bayou to see Remy's Tante Mattie, he was definitely going to the magician with greater geographical proximity to him.

 

Some days, he wondered why he let Remy get away with so much flack.

 

The door opened as he prepared to knock, and Wong gave a small bow. “Wolverine. Gambit.”

 

Being tall for a native Tibetan, Wong fairly stood over Logan himself, and could look Remy in the eye. His expression was serene, to say the least. Wong's poker face was so good, it almost qualified as a superpower. “My master is expecting you. Please, may I take your coat?”

 

“No, t'anks,” Gambit twitched. Despite the urge to steal in sight, Gambit should have been fairly clear on how stealing from magicians and the like was not a good idea. “Remy like to keep coat on hand.”

 

“Of course, we understand. One must always plan for a quick getaway in the business.” Wong looked at them, before nodding sombrely and leading both men into the doctor's office.

 

It was large, a large study packed full of books, scrolls, tablets and knick-knacks, all rather neatly organised. An enormous mahogany desk was the centrepiece and there was a fire crackling in a fireplace. Behind the desk sat Dr Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme.

 

“Gambit and Wolverine, master,” Wong spoke in calm, formal tones.

 

“Thank you, Wong,” Strange answered with a calm, resonant voice. “Our guests have travelled a long way. Could you please find them some refreshment?”

 

“Very good, master.”

 

“Thank you,” Strange waited until the man had left. Steepling his fingers to glance at them. “Good day. I thought you'd be by.”

 

“Saw us coming, eh, _docteur_?” Remy smirked.

 

“A certain degree of foresight is always good in businesses like ours,” Strange neutrally replied. “But no. I saw the report.” He picked up the _Daily Bugle_ , now with the blaring headline:

 

BOY FOUND MAULED NEAR XAVIER INSTITUTE

 

“I guessed that the matter would have been brought to my attention sooner or later.”

 

“Actually, it's two matters,” Wolverine clarified. “One is the boy, Derek Hunt. Why?”

 

Strange looked... sad. More tired than the perfect silver streaks at his temples should allow. “Hunt is... was a member of an ancient Irish family line. His family has a notable history. Sometime in the murky past, legend would have it, St Patrick cursed his ancestor to become a ravening beast at every full moon. The curse came with two addenda. First, that it would be hereditary, passing down to someone new each and every generation. And second, that the cursed line of the family would never, ever die out, lasting until the end of days. Since the last loup-garou, as his kind is referred to amongst the supernatural world, was killed, Derek Hunt obviously became the new generation.”

 

“A Catholic saint?” Logan sceptically muttered.

 

“Who knows,” was the reply. “But to be cursed with such a fate... it is sad. There is often no way to break such curses, save one.”

 

“To kill them,” Remy murmured.

 

Strange merely inclined his head. “And the other problem, gentlemen?”

 

“I've... been approached by a weird guy,” Logan slowly admitted. “Do you know of a shop that grants wishes?”

 

Strange shrugged. “Many claim such a thing. Few actually keep their word.”

 

“The shopkeeper's called Kimihiro Watanuki,” Logan slowly reversed the order of names.

 

Strange did nothing, at first. Then, it was with a slow and deliberate motion that he reached beside him for the whiskey decanter that Wong delivered, almost like magic. The clink of ice on crystal notwithstanding, the silence continued until three glasses were handed out, one generously dealt, and Strange had downed his own.

 

“The shop of the Dimensional Witch is a reputable establishment,” Strange finally answered. “To cross paths with the shop, never mind the new shopkeeper, that is indeed powerful. I can only assume that you have a wish left unfulfilled.”

 

“Great,” Remy interjected. “So how to chase him off?”

 

Strange frowned, before he pushed his chair back and settled himself. “Absolutely not.”

 

Whatever the answer, clearly that one had not been expected. “Why not?”

 

Strange leaned back, expression genuinely disturbed. “You are aware that all forces act in balance. My powers are part and parcel of that balance. Likewise, the powers of the shop of wishes are another part of that balance. I am not free to employ them at whim without serious repercussions – to do so is incredibly dangerous. Not to mention, I have no guarantee of survival.”

 

“You?” Logan echoed. “You're the bloody Sorcerer Supreme!”

 

“I am that,” Strange admitted. “And the shopkeeper was once a with capable of transcending space-time, armed with powers beyond my compare. I tell you that I can match gods, maybe persuade them. The Witch of Dimensions who once owned the shop could create gods, if needed. And that is the crux; I am the strongest sorcerer of this world. But not of other worlds.”

 

“You know, you could've just said that you can't take the guy in a straight fight.”

 

“It is not that,” Strange frowned. “Despite all the power of the shop, it possesses by itself a very limited offensive power. It is primarily a broker of agreements and arbitrations, a creator rather than a destroyer, an intermediary of lower and higher planes meant for humans to have their wishes granted. But, were I to turn my powers against that of the shop would be” he actually paled – “an abuse of that which is entrusted to my care. A blasphemy of the primal forces of our world.”

 

“Yeah, you could've just said that it's a bad idea, and left it at that.” Logan snorted dismissively. “Thanks. We'll take it from here.”

 

Strange gave him a politely curious look. “You are not unduly disturbed by the prospect.”

 

“Worst-case scenario, I buy something and the guy leaves, right?” Logan frowned.

 

Strange steepled his fingers. “The price for your wish is equal to what you wish for. There are those who have gone mad from paying the price. I am sorry. I can do no more.”

 

Logan sighed. “Nah, you're right. I'll just... tell him to run the hell away.”

 

Strange's look was appraising now, until his eyes wandered to Remy, where he merely smirked. “I see. I recommend you do not embark on such an endeavour alone.”

 

Logan remained silent until they were escorted out. “It's like an encyclopaedia salesman, I swear.”

 

“Hear, hear,” Remy sardonically muttered. “What do we do?”

 

“We?” Logan echoed. “There's no we. There never was a we.”

 

“ _Mon glouton_ , are you really going to do that?” Remy stuck his chin out.

 

“Yes.” Logan glared, then deliberately went to his waiting Harley.

 

“Where ya going, Logan!” Remy shouted as the engine started up.

 

“To solve the problem!” Logan shouted as he drove off.

 

* * *

 

Although their paths would meet, Logan sincerely had no idea how he would find the shop. It was probably thankful that he went to the Village and found it.

 

“Have you thought about it?” Watanuki inquired lightly, a small pipe clamped between his lips. His gaze never leaving Logan's eyes, a wisp of smoke deliberately wafted past a brilliant blood-red peony stood in a vase on the table.

 

“I don't need you to grant my wish,” Logan bit out. “I got what I want. I ain't paying whatever you give.”

 

“Companionship,” Watanuki leaned forward. “And challenges. How do you feel, attached to a school of young ones with barely any knowledge of this cruelly dark world? There are others out there, people without powers who are victimised by the darkness. And how many classes have passed you by, now? How many have you seen born, dead, how many years have passed? Even for the forty years of your memory, times have changed so much that they may well be unrecognisable.”

 

Logan's jaw set, and he merely said nothing under the scrutiny of four pairs of eyes, Maru, Moro and Mokona. There was no lie in it.

 

“I too face the same thing,” Watanuki sighed. “How old do you think I am?”

 

Logan swallowed at the curve of the man's throat, swept by silk and incense-scented robes.

 

“A constant, now and forever,” Watanuki murmured. “And all I need is your occasional assistance in this shop, to grant wishes to those who require it. The loup-garou child is merely the tip of the iceberg. You cannot know of how many of those monsters of legends are indeed true. You do not know of how many children have been caught and ensnared.”

 

“I help kids just fine,” Logan muttered.

 

Watanuki merely gave a small smile. “And when have I said that you must leave it behind? I only require your... occasional company. As a dinner and drink companion, as conversation... or what were you thinking?”

 

Logan stared into those mismatched eyes that twinkled. “I... I don't know?”

 

“Do you wish to know?” the hem of the robe dipped as Watanuki leaned forward. “Maru, Moro, get the snacks ready in the kitchen. Mokona, help them, please.”

 

“Yes!” the chorus rang out as all three milled out, leaving Logan in a cage of smoke wisps that may well be metal.

 

Watanuki descended, and the slender limbs that began to encroach into his personal space was as pale as his face suggested. “Well, _Mr_ Logan?”

 

The feral took a deep breath. Warm, fragrant, incense, that invited a trance and something magic, yet stilled in time, untouched. Not spicy, vivacious, musky or explosive...

 

“Peace,” Watanuki murmured lowly, almost a song, not with the different discords that were invited between the Cajun English peppered with French. A promise, oblivion, control, challenge... peace.

 

A card fluttered, and Watanuki and Logan dived out of the way as it exploded.

 

“What the fuck?” Logan swore, claws cutting through _tatami_ in an instant.

 

Standing at the doors, Remy was holding a card, prepared to charge and fling it. Opposite him, Watanuki grinned in reply, the small fox-like thing slithering to puff up, growing tin size and tails to defend Watanuki. All nine tails bushed out, the fox hissing.

 

“M. LeBeau,” Watanuki greeted.

 

“Sorry, Mr Watanuki,” Remy's voice cracked. “Logan's just been sent to Louisiana for a few weeks. And to my Tante Mattie's place. So you won't be able to contact him for a long while, 'kay? Right, good.”

 

“Oi!” Logan hotly growled as he was dragged out of the room.

 

“That's enough, Mugetsu,” the fox purred by Watanuki as the seer took a deep breath, blowing out more smoke from between his lips. “If only this action were enough... did you get the pictures?”

 

“Yes!” Maru and Moro held up the Polaroids.

 

* * *

 

“What the hell is your problem!” Logan raged later. The shop still managed to disappear, which was creepy because apparently, it could be in two places at the same time. Or accessed from different places at the same time. Still creepy.

 

“You were going to be-” Remy protested. “He might be messin' about in yer head, _mon cher_! Remy was looking out for you!”

 

“You do not throw the rough equivalent of a grenade into the place!” Logan groaned. “Even I know that!”

 

Remy scowled. “He was... really close to you-”

 

“And so was Rogue, Kitty, Laura, and plenty of others...” Logan trailed off at the realisation. “Are you... attached to me?”

 

“Aww, _cher_ ,” Remy smirked. “Who wouldn't be attached to the big, manly strong guy who's like a big furry bear that's just about as endearing.”

 

“I'm going to ignore that you've just called me a stuffed animal and focus on the first four adjectives,” Logan rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. “God, you sound like a teenage girl. I wonder what they think of us now?”

 

Within the shop, the cackles of four evil – relatively speaking, of course – persons echoed.


	4. What Could Have Been

Remy LeBeau had, until recent years, never believed in monsters under the bridges and things like that. Growing up on the streets of New Orleans, and things like the Thieves' Guild tended to make monsters less fantastic and more of the scum of humanity that lingered around after dark.

Hence, he grimaced, not out of fear of darkness – which was not quite possible for his cat-like eyes – but rather of disgust. So did Logan, but then Logan had a lot more on the senses than Remy in the first place.

“Your Tante has a sense of humour,” was the sardonic comment. For some odd reason – to him anyway – Remy had dragged him all the way into the bayou, and on the surface it seemed it was to visit his guardian, or Tante Mattie as Remy called her. That was until he found out that Tante Mattie was also a magician and, apparently like all magicians, knew about the wish shop and its very determined shopkeeper. Thus their foray into one of the weirdest areas of New Orleans.

“Mmm, _d'accord_ ,” Remy muttered, frowning at their view under the bridge. Under it, not over it, because apparently trolls did live on the underside of bridges. “Kinda disgusting, but at least the _connard_ ain't hanging around here.”

“Watanuki? Oh, he's just off the Garden District,” Logan absently replied. He was so intent on scanning the darkened brick that he failed to notice Remy abruptly stilling.

“The _connard_ is _here_?” Cue the undignified squeak.

“Yes...?” Logan grinned as the troll's arm came out, and the monster roared. Because there was nothing quite like killing a troll to change the subject.

Of course, when the troll is safely dumped into the bayou, Tante Mattie is saying goodbye while giving a knowing smirk to Logan and Remy as they leave. Never before had so many marriage jokes been made, but the 'you're in charge of Remy now, be good to him you _connard_ ' had to take the cake.

* * *

Gambit felt that it was weird at first, knowing that Logan is interested in men. So weird, in fact, that he couldn't even figure out how he felt about it, except maybe a little worried that Logan will act on his desires. Wolverine wasn't exactly a happy camper to begin with – being a downright moody son of a bitch – and Gambit was worried about Logan offending some magic person who'd then turn him into a toad and squash him.

Because that´s what will happen, if Logan pursues him. Probably...

But Logan does nothing. Which should be a relief, but instead is oddly unsettling. Logan isn't doing things that anyone else seems to find strange or worthy of mention, even with the _connard_ of a shopkeeper around sometimes. He isn't making suggestive comments, or putting his hands where they don't belong. He isn't doing anything at all to imply that he has a carnal interest in _that guy_ , or even Gambit. Isn't saying anything, isn't doing anything.

He's just _there;_ solid, immovable Wolverine. Which is most unsettling. Because whenever Logan is around, Gambit can feel it. That lust. It isn't anywhere near overwhelming, but it's there. Constant, low-grade wanting. It gets till he can tell Logan is there the minute he enters a room, whether he can see him or not. He can feel him, can feel that lust creeping into the air around him, like fingers running through his hair.

It's a new form of torture, specific for Remy LeBeau, and Logan is the only one capable of administering it.

Well, it was time for some payback.

“WHAT?”

Scott was standing ramrod straight, and even through his sunglasses was trying to make Fearless Leader Stance Number #1 – Fearless Leader 'I'm Not Taking Shit From You' Poker Face. “In the interest of smoothing over this... wrinkle in teamwork. We're locking Remy and you into the Danger Room until you either kill each other, or resolve this... tension between you two.”

“Why don't you tell him the third option of going at each other?” was Kurt's suggestion.

Scott developed a tic in his jaw – Fearless Leader Under Stress. “I am sure that Logan doesn't like men... like that.”

And why? Because apparently Logan was the most aggressively heterosexual men in the entire place, but it was also the Gambit...

Logan squinted at Kurt. “There's a betting pool, ain't there?”

The blue-skinned elf nodded. “Odds are three to one of you killing Remy, four to one of Remy killing you, and about... two to one you're going at each other? Please don't shoot the messenger.”

Which therefore ended with Gambit taunting him all day. Taking cheap shots, sticking that damn Bo staff in places it should _never_ be, blitzing him with charged playing cards that mysteriously keep missing the intended target.

A distraction... or so everyone else might think. Except Logan, who knows that he is, in fact, the intended target.

Gambit has begun the final battle in a war that Logan is just now realizing he's been losing all along. Obviously, Gambit was unfamiliar with the ways of the wolverine. They were things you did not fuck with.

They've run through this program nearly a dozen times already, and it never gets any better. Gambit is obviously only half-paying attention now. His focus is Logan and the many ways he can get under his skin. Or at least right up against it. Logan's getting angry and reckless and his concentration's all shot to hell. He leans sullenly against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Gambit.

No one else is here, and he decides that enough is enough during their nth face-off and slams the Cajun into the nearest wall.

By then, the Wolverine had relinquished, and Logan is left with the worst realisation of what he might have done to a dubiously consensual individual.

“We're done, Cajun,” his voice was rough and raw when he drops the sullen brat.

* * *

Logan knows that he probably shouldn't have the WTF look on his face, but it was so hard when Maru and Moro drops the body-sized thing onto the table. It was a weird shop. Human and inhuman things coexisted in this shop. He wouldn't put it past the shop to be able to access the Skrulls.

“The hair?” Watanuki questions. Unerringly, Logan hands over the single auburn strand stolen later. He watches carefully as Watanuki sews a single strand onto the doll-shaped dummy thing, and watches in fascinated horror as blank features slowly morph into that of Remy Etienne LeBeau. Naked.

His – it's – eyes open to distinct red against black, the features exactly what he thought.

“In taking this one, you may, perhaps, manage to be close to that which you yearn,” Watanuki comments as Maru and Moro slides the next door screen to show the futon already prepared. “The inside is soundproof, do not worry. There is, however, a price to pay...”

“And it's...?” Logan warily asks.

“What may be.” Watanuki simply answers.

Logan grins. He's so fucking hard already.

* * *

Pretty.

Submissive.

Fuckable.

It – he – the morphing doll-thing – it moves just like Logan thought it might, responsive and needing and Logan can't recall where the last few hours went, but it doesn't matter, it was pure bliss, having the exact likeness and smells, and the voice, also needy and hurting.

It was an illusion. It was an illusion Logan desperately craved.

Sated and warm, Logan finally got his act back together to clean up and get dressed. “Oi, you awake, Rems?”

He – it – it stares vacantly up at the ceiling, before Logan realises with alarming clarity that the Gambit body-double was bleeding onto the futon, the scars like scratches in sets of threes, like his own... it makes a choking noise, it whimpers, its face ages, wrinkles and laugh lines and grey hairs amidst auburn.

“Love you... _mon glouton_...” Gambit – he – it – gasps before it is dead, the no one home clearly apparent in that beautiful ravaged body.

“God!” Logan slides the door open, to see the four occupants of the shop there, placidly sipping tea. “That... he, it-”

Watanuki fixes him with a stare. “Horrible, isn't it?”

“He...” Logan whispered.

“It makes you so vulnerable,” Watanuki continues. “It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defences, you build up a whole suit of armour, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life … and you give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. You wanted to know what being with him is like. I gave it to you, the good, and the bad personified. Old age, illness, and death are the things you cannot fight, Logan. Your price is therefore thus; that every time you think about what could have been, you will, unavoidably, remember what I said.”

Logan grated his teeth, but did not yell, did not even answer, but just took his coat and left.

“Do you think he will, Watanuki?” Mokona asks.

“I don't think so,” Watanuki replied. “But we can only hope.”

So, from then Logan would look at Remy, and try to picture him only as Gambit, his colleague, rather than Remy, the man he might or might not be interested in, and then he would remember the face of that poor doll, which might die by his own hand or by time or by cancers that maybe only mutants could get or any number of things that made them so fragile, and the nightmares would haunt him because he would know that while he remained hale and hearty, the other would die, and it would hurt worse than maybe even Mariko.

Remy won't understand because he keeps living in the present and he doesn't like Logan moping, and Logan is a dangerous moody son of a bitch, and the next time his relationship with Rogue is going on, he smiles, and plays coy, and no one ever knows that he's curious what sex with the Logan, the incredible Wolverine, might be like.

it's all them. There is no external power tearing them apart. They are the architects of their own disaster, their lack of communication so deeply rooted in who they are that it's impossible to imagine them doing anything else.

It was the most painful of things, this thing they could have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End, just an idea... I might make this into a series, depending on the comments and feedback I get.


End file.
